Soon: Chapters 32-33: De Plane, De Plane!!!
Since I am a sad single panda this Valentine’s Day, I shall do an even sadder panda post on Paul’s sad attempts to be a useful spy, and Barton’s sad attempt to be a litterbug.
ABSOLUTELY OUTRAGED over the MASSACRE (not holocaust), Paul pulls up his big boy hero pants and…drives back to Tiny Allendo’s house for a poolside celebratory dinner.
I could very easily forgive this if Paul was trying to make up for his earlier foolish revelations of his own feelings, and was attempting to get back into Ranold’s good graces. But no, Paul is sulky and irritable as always, moping about while everyone else eats, drinks, and is merry.
…it was clear that only Paul had a problem with what had gone on that day. Ranold was right. America was proud of them.
Tiny had invited many friends and movie-business associates, all of whom crowded around Chief Balaam, who looked like the blade of a knife in a silver gown.
I assume this is meant to make Bia sound unfeminine and inhuman again, but to me it makes Bia sound awesome, like a woman who knows herself, knows her coloring and body type and what looks good on her.
The party sounds like a blast, with the vino flowing like Tiny’s monstrosity of a fountain, except for this bit:
…the piece de resistance among the hors d-oeuvres was live sushi, small golden fish that darted through a trough down the middle of the table, which the bravest caught with tiny spears. Paul was horrified.
Okay, okay, I see that. I typed in “live sushi” at YouTube and was fairly horrified myself. But it’s not like this is something that the evil Atheistopians made up. The whole trough thing just seems like the newest Rich Folks’ fad. And since Paul is morally stricken by a frakking fountain, I am not impressed by his outrage.
Bia Balaam appeared at his side, spear in hand. “Caught one yet?”
“No,” Paul said. “Can’t say that I’ve tried.”
“Maybe it’s the sport you don’t care for.”
“Spearing fish in a trough doesn’t seem sporting to me.”
Hee. Reminds me of Dave Barry’s theory that we should make hunting more sporting by arming the deer with rifles.
Hell, Paul, it’s not sporting to catch fish with a net or kill cattle in a slaughterhouse, but you said in San Francisco that you loved both steak and fish. I could understand if you didn’t like this because of the extra cruelty involved, but unsporting seems the wrong word.
“You seem very scrupulous, Dr. Stepola.”
DANGER DANGER DANGER
She is on to you, Paul! Quick, say something Atheistopian!
“I try to do what’s right, Agent Balaam.”
“I’m sure you do. But what counts most is the ability to do what’s necessary.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Oh yeah, you totally burned her there, Paul.
“I hope you do. And please also keep in mind that I am Chief Balaam.”
Okay, Bia won that round, hands down. We gotta give her that.
But never mind that. Because it’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s…
Barton’s plane drops the leaflets, according to plan, and CHAOS ERUPTS.
Well, more like mild confusion:
Some guests shrieked. Others caught the flyers and read their messages aloud. They cited miracles, warning of the coming judgment and offering salvation through Christ.
So, we have startled and amused so far…
Red-faced, Balaam demanded a phone.
I guess she was so surprised by the tracts that she momentarily forgot that SHE HAS A PHONE IN HER SKULL.
Ranold shook his fist at the sky, bellowing drunked threats.
Well, hell, at least they’re both doing something.
To hide his feelings, Paul strolled to the fountain.
“And what was Dr. Stepola doing during this crisis, Agent Balaam?”
“Well, he was wandering around calmly. It was as if he knew what was happening, as if he didn’t care to do anything about it…”
And a plan came to him–a plan so clear and complete that he believed it was from God Himself.
This evening, I had a plan, too: to have a glass of wine, watch a movie, and write a critique of another section of Soon. This plan was so clear and complete that it must have been from Gawd Hirself.
And now I have fulfilled that glorious plan!
Next time: What Happened to Barton